


Peter

by analblaster3000



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A Few Woodland Creatures Die, Age Difference, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Gore, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mercenary Wade Wilson, Not for the squeamish, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker isn't Spider-Man, Possessive Venom Symbiote (Marvel), Protective Wade Wilson, Redemption, Smol Peter Parker, Superfamily (Marvel), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Wade Wilson's Inappropriate Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analblaster3000/pseuds/analblaster3000
Summary: Peter is caught in a neverending identity crisis. Wade, on the other hand, takes it upon himself to find the root of New York's current problem. The thing leaving headless bodies, marrowless bones, and scraps of carcasses across the city's skyline like a mother hiding Easter eggs for a toddler. Wade suggests it's time he tests the extent of his regenerative abilities. At least if he died, the giant alien mass would be someone else's problem. Someone that was better at consoling an innocent-looking teenager that'd just devoured Wade's right arm as if it was a drumstick from a circular bin of fried chicken. Yes, he would like to see Tony Stark react in that situation.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Venom Symbiote, Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. ONE

Curtains fluttered with each and every sign of wind. The breeze was cold and laced with the bittersweet smell of decaying fall leaves. Moisture clung to the closed double-paneled windows, but the temperature still wasn't cold enough to freeze it. Instead, the small droplets were ice-white and degrees away from forming crystals. An aged lock failed to keep the window tightly secured, and instead, it permitted a cool draft to curl through its cracks.

The sharp sound of a child's chattering teeth came from within the small room. A boy was curled up in bed, wrapped in layers of blankets with a high fever and body-shaking chills.

The thermometer at his bedside read something over a hundred degrees, and there was a cold pack draped over his sweaty forehead. Meanwhile, he was wrapped head to toe to keep out the cold. Ends of blankets tucked in to protect his tiny toes. He became a paradox of blankets and packets of frozen gels.

It was inevitable that he was heard. Peter's chills were something seen as a cry for help. It was a beckoning call left unanswered. His aunt was fast asleep in the other room, gathering as much energy as she could before a lengthy shift early the next morning. 

But something entered the room through the cracked double-paneled window. It fished through the screen, but the entity had little patience. Its body weaved through the cracks of the window's frail frame, bypassing rotting flies and collecting dust as it slithered. It seeped over the ledge, and it slipped through the needle-like cracks in splintered wood. The majority of the being maneuvered through the obstacles of crosshatched wiring. Nothing would deter it from the warm, beckoning body cocooned in blankets. 

The being hissed as it climbed over an assortment of action figures. Plastic heroes discarded from a day's play, now covered in the germs of developing sickness. Red and gold toys harboring nothing but influenza. It climbed the bedpost with ease, yet it was eager; it felt the wool blanket but the warmth it sought was deeper. Seeping through the fabric, it hissed like a mother singing a soft lullaby. A tone that relaxed the boy's muscles and dried his damp forehead.

The cold chatter of teeth came to an end while the child's temperature dropped dramatically. The fever ran its course within the next few minutes. 

He woke the next morning to a voice. 

"It's time to eat."

His aunt had set out two brands of cereal before she left earlier that morning.


	2. TWO

Peter kicked a stone on the dirt path, watching as it rolled and tumbled over the exposed roots of a tall oak tree. He was eight years old with a little brown mop of hair, pale skin, and doe eyes. His face was flushed and there was a nagging pain in his gut. Thin pink lips formed a straight line as his brows pinched in pain and perplexity.

He had seen that tree before. And that one, too. But he did not remember leaving the house. He had just memorized a few long-limbed trees in the large, familiar circle. A path that led nowhere.

"Auntie May?" He called, his high-pitched voice cracking as the trees did with every gust of wind.

All that returned was a crackle of leaves in the distance. Of which was nearly impossible for Peter to hear, for the noise was several miles away. But his senses were exceedingly strong.

And as he wet his lips, his tongue tasted the air like a snake in the desert. An array of scents stuck to its tip. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth as it threatened to spill over the edges. His gums paled quickly. They ached at the roots; crescent-shaped curves outlined each and every exposed tooth. His mouth couldn't get any whiter. Peter looked like a lost cottonmouth weaving around trees and weeds. _Hungry_.

Peter felt sick, and a groaning stomach was a significant reminder.

"Hello?" Yelled the child. He gave up soon after that; his body demanded silence, and he could not disobey. At that age, he didn't know any better. Rebellion was the last thing on his mind. It was something that was bound to change with age. 

Instead of retracing his steps, Peter went in the opposite direction. Peter followed the crackle of leaves as it ricocheted off every tree. His nostrils flared and his eyes closed to take in the forest's musky scent. Something about the situation had him on edge.

Peter heard the rapid heartbeat of a stag headed in his direction. It was approximately three miles north. _Hungry_ , said his stomach. And he was. Peter was very, _very_ hungry. One of his kidneys was rotting inside him as if it was slowly being consumed. Old cuts from a playground's woodchips failed to scab over and heal. Part of him knew the hunger was to blame. 

The buck smelled like a bitter sap on Peter's tongue. Urine and feces lingered behind it like a secondary wave of odor. Mud matted the stag's short white tail. It pulled at his hooves, drawing him closer to the earth. The scent of mud failed to mask the stench of healthy flesh and pumping blood. Blood that pumped with a beat that echoed incessantly in Peter's eardrums. 

But the boy's memory is forever patchy and laced with fog, so he's forced to rely on other senses in order to recall what happened that day in the woods. That day he was so very, very _hungry_.

The day he grew two times his height and ran with an added weight to his body. The speed at which he moved rivaled an animal on all fours. Peter knew this because he could feel the marsh between his toes as his feet propelled him faster and faster. The woods were silent save for the sound of saliva dripping and heavy breathing. Hungry, hungry, _hungry_. 

There was a single cry, but it ended quickly with traces of mercy. However, no mercy was left for its remains. Deep snaps of bone and crackling of cartilage began. It was as if Peter sat before a bonfire. The carcass popped and sizzled like white-hot embers and chalky ash. Warmth burned his face as blood dripped from his jowls. 

He felt bones hollow between his lips. Bone marrow sat heavy in his stomach. But color returned to his gums and his kidney felt just a little bit better. His eyes were as white as the bones after they had been picked completely clean. His smile was just as bright after he licked the blood from each canine. The blood was like a salad dressing or a savory sauce that stuck with him until his tongue plucked every drop from between his teeth. 

Crescent-like shapes colored his gums as he applied pressure to his teeth. He was gnawing. His teeth carved at hefty antlers. They chipped at the tines and bit from its bumpy roots. The markings he left were not blunt. They looked like they were made by knives and expensive cutlery. That was until his hand broke off pieces–tine by tine–and slid them smoothly down his gullet. His throat clenched around them to send them to his stomach even faster, and his jaws crushed the rest to dust.

In the end, nothing remained of the stag. The feelings and predictions made him want to vomit hours later, but the hunger wouldn't let him. He had a full belly, and a part of him was content at that. Satisfied. His rotting kidneys were pristine, and the fresh playground cuts nonexistent. 

Peter sat by a pine tree, his back against the bark. His mind had slowly cleared, and the sky followed it. He wiped away the fog by assessing his body; the action had him racing to remove his jacket.

It was damp with blood and saliva, as it had been licked clean minutes earlier, but Peter had no recollection of that. There was still red deep in the fibers, and it made the jacket heavier. The child wiped his face with the inside fur of the coat. He slid his hands through the warmth to cleanse them of red. Red his tongue had missed. 

And then he threw it as far as he could, watching as it flew in the wind. It caught a gust and fell only a few feet from him. He failed to rid himself of it like the memories that would sit with him forever.

The eight-year-old cried. His face was flushed and there was a nagging satisfaction in his gut. Thin pink lips formed a straight line as his brows pinched in pain, perplexity, and sadness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This will be a short story. Here, in the beginning, I will take idea suggestions as we go through Peter's childhood with Venom. Examples where we see childhood innocence and circumstances but with Venom's dark twist. I have a few planned already. But eventually, we will get to a point in the plot where they would interrupt the storyline, so I will either move them to where they would belong or stop taking suggestions–I'm unsure and will decide that later on. 
> 
> Also, as much as I want to include Spider-Man, I will not be. This is a different Peter Parker. An animalistic one without morals. Where we will be able to see different levels of evil and how they interact. And how redemption doesn't always have a good samaritan pulling a villain from the depths of hell. How the good, the bad, and the ugly vary depending on your perspective.
> 
> Lastly, I will make note that I don't intend to hold back on my descriptions. I tend to get very into them when it comes to scenery or gore. When it comes to violence and gore, I will usually get descriptive within a particular paragraph, so feel free to skip a few paragraphs until the situation calms down. If I notice major triggers outside of gore and canon-typical violence, I will state them in the beginning notes. Have a great day and I hope you all enjoy it. I am a Wattpad refugee visiting in an attempt to escape the growing corporate greed and incessant advertisements.


End file.
